


Saying (Our) Names

by FeuillesMortes



Series: In Fair Verona [2]
Category: Still Star-Crossed (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Mutual Pining, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-10-28 17:51:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17791991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeuillesMortes/pseuds/FeuillesMortes
Summary: Of all the ways Rosaline could spend her Valentine’s, she had never thought she would spend it like this.





	Saying (Our) Names

**Author's Note:**

> A sequel to the fic [Christmas Cheer](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17107382), written for the Valentine's in Verona Prompt Challenge.  
> The title comes from a poem by Richard Siken.
> 
> "What's in a name? that which we call a rose  
> By any other name would smell as sweet"

Of all the ways Rosaline could spend her Valentine’s, she had never thought she would spend it like _this_.

It had been a long day at work, exhausting and taxing and all around nerve-wrecking thanks to the most recent influx of new clients. Over the couple of years since Rosaline had started working for that firm she had somehow acquired the reputation of being a relentless workaholic — a label that, perhaps unsurprisingly enough, had led her co-workers to quickly assume she could do everybody else’s paperwork besides her own. Over the most recent months they had started approaching her with multiple excuses:

_Rosaline, you’re so good at this! Could you look at this new form for me?_

_Ros dear, can you check this report?_

_Could you give this client a call?_

_Can you put Carl on the line?_

_Rosaline, where would we all be without you?_

_Rosaline,_

_Rosaline,_

_Rosaline!_

If people would just let her _breathe_ for a moment! Rosaline had never been a stranger to overbearing responsibilities: much like all older siblings, she had learned to be dutiful and reliable since the earliest stages of childhood. But then, there was only one person she was responsible for in this whole world and that person was her _sister_. Livia was family, work was  _work_. If there was one thing Rosaline prided herself of, it was her exact ability to tell right from wrong. She wouldn’t be coddling anyone’s expectations that day. To everyone’s surprise, she shook her head and said  _no, no, no_ , numerous times that Valentine's. She was going to leave early.

_Why? Because I have a date, that's why._

No one needed to know that her date was actually a bottle of rosé, a Lush bath bomb and a novel she had been wanting to read for months. But the photos she had taken with the Montague over the holidays had come in handy for once. Christmas at his uncle’s, New Year’s at her aunt’s. As she slid a finger across her phone screen, the bright colours flashed with fake amorous scenes: Benvolio with his arm around her waist, an affectionate look on his face, eyes almost lovestruck. Rosaline and her white teeth pressing her cheeks into a joyful smile. It had took surprisingly little to make them look like a real couple, surprisingly little to get them an appearance of easiness around each other. And all things considered, Benvolio had turned out to be… surprisingly respectful of her boundaries.

The thing that had most surprised Rosaline about Benvolio Montague, though, was that the he could actually be good company. Rosaline had always been accused of having a too caustic sense of humour. Well, Benvolio matched her sarcastic quips with equal skill and wit. _Look out, Capulet_ , he had warned her one day, daring to boop her nose _, I may yet come to best you at your own game_.

As if speaking of the devil himself, his text notification popped up as she was about to enter her house.    

> **The Montague**
> 
> _Hey, I need your help.  
>  __Please come._ _  
> _ _It’s urgent._

Keys already in hand, Rosaline groaned, letting out a huff of frustration. Her help, yet again? Hadn’t they started that whole fake dating thing because he needed help with his uncle? Of course Rosaline had benefited from the entire scheme — her aunt’s face of surprise and Escalus’ look of humiliation had been rewarding enough at the time — but things between the two of them were starting to get a little too far. They were spending far too much time together for two mere allies trying to vex their respective relatives.

It was irritating. Rosaline could feel herself softening to the Montague. Some things he did were even starting to look _endearing_ to her, for God’s sake! The way he blinked when he was about to crack a joke, for one, or the shake of his shoulders when he laughed. His stubble beard, the weight of his hand on her back asking _“Are you alright there, Capulet?”_ No, it was inconceivable to think of him on those terms. Rosaline could not allow it. She _should not_ allow it.

She was trying to think of a way to excuse herself when another text came in, telling her his address. Her thumbs hovered over the phone screen, ready to send her _‘sorry, I can’t come over tonight’_ but they stopped, trembled, retreated. Benvolio had said it _was_ a matter of urgency. What sort of mess had he walked into that time? Worry began to worm its way into her brain, it creeped at the edges. Years of being Rosaline, worrier extraordinaire, had left their mark.

So she gave in, put his address on her GPS and drove. She was about to meet the second most surprising thing about the Montague that day: his loft apartment. It wasn't one of those soft, gentrified lofts hungrily sought after by bohemians and hipsters all over the city. It pretty much looked like it used to be a real warehouse. Rosaline knew full well Benvolio wasn't living with his uncle anymore but she hadn’t had a clue about his living conditions so far. By the look of things, it seemed he wasn’t accepting any help from his wealthy relative. Stepping inside his place, she felt like going through the looking-glass. His living-room was so cluttered with the most random things — pieces of wood, fabrics, toolboxes — it was difficult for her to walk inside. His walls were covered with sketches from floor to ceiling, pointy designs of some kind of furniture. Chair seats, table legs, half-finished armchairs.

_What... the hell?_

“Capulet.” A hoarse voice came from some obscure point. “Over here.”

She turned, following that voice, and when she saw him lying abed it all hit her at once: his apartment’s state of disarray, his unlocked door, his simple shout telling her to _just turn the doorknob and come in_. Benvolio was sick. He had been for some days by the look of it. There were several used tissues on the floor near his bed. And what was that, a bucket? Rosaline made a face as she slowly unwound the scarf around her neck, perplexed.

“Not the most romantic scene at Valentine’s, I’m afraid.” Benvolio noted sheepishly, drawing his eyebrows together over what could only be described as an apologetic smile.

“Well, not exactly my idea for a perfect date, yeah.”

She gestured around with a sweep of hand, but Benvolio looked so contrite for a second, Rosaline felt almost sorry for making a face.

“But… if it’s any consolation, Montague, I must say you gain points for _surprising_ and _original_ at least. Don't lose faith just yet."

Her poor jest gave him a chuckle, as brief as it was.

“I’m sorry, but as you can see I’ve been a little…” He gestured at his prone form. “... under the weather, so to speak.” He gave her a smile, strangely charming given the circumstances and the dark circles under his eyes. “Mercutio is untraceable as always and Romeo is out of town.” He paused, shooting her a quick sideways glance. “As you might know it yourself.”

He was, of course, referring to his cousin’s romantic escapade with Juliet, an unexpected holiday that had sent her aunt into raving.

“Also…” He kept saying with some difficulty, brows sweating. “I didn’t want to call my uncle.” Bitter short laugh escaping his lips. “As one does.”

"I understand."

Rosaline nodded after him, feeling weirdly sorry. She took off her jacket and draped it over a chair. Then, stepping closer to the bed, she hesitated. She debated with herself rather she should sit next to him on the mattress or not but ultimately decided to go for it. What harm could it cause?

“So…” She folded her hands atop her lap, not exactly sure what to do with them. She, who was always so sure about everything! “How... are you feeling?”

“Oh, you know. The usual flu symptoms but—” He coughed a few times trying to clean his throat, then took a deep breath. “—but I woke up today with my whole body aching and now... it seems I can’t... move.”

She laid a hand on his forehead, felt his skin burning. “You didn’t overwork yourself to the point of collapsing, did you?” She squinted her eyes at him, almost scowling, then gestured at the multiple tools scattered across the room.

“Oh come on, Capulet! How old do you think I am, twelve?” Then, shrieking under her sharp gaze, he lowered his eyes and confessed. “I can't raise my arms anymore, anyway.”

“Benvolio!” She squeezed his hand. A slap would be more fitting if not for his poor state. “You can’t do whatever is it you’re doing while you’re sick!”

“But you won’t tell anyone, will you? About my project, that is.” His eyes pleaded with her, honest and blue-grey. “Romeo knows and so does Mercutio, but I don’t want anyone else to know about my designs for a while. At least until I'm ready."

His confession made her half-smile. _Look at this silly fool —_  Rosaline thought, in a strangely and overly fond tone —  _following his uncle's career_ _when he should be making a name for himself in the decorative arts._ She sighed, completely giving up on the idea of banishing any fond thoughts about Benvolio. Still, she tried to make a joke out of the situation.

“Have you forgotten we're partners in crime now? Your secret is safe with me.” She nudged his shoulder. “And since my debt is paid, now _you’re_ the one who owes me one.”

His weak smile broadened little by little into a grin. It was her turn to have her hand squeezed, and only then did she realise they still had their hands linked together.

“Thank you.” Benvolio uttered just above a whisper, going very serious all of a sudden. “And thank you for being here, most of all. I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

She shrugged, trying to steer the conversation back into joke territory. “It’s not like I really had any plans. You know me, I’ll die an old maid.”

“It still means a lot to me.”

Shaking her head, Rosaline was about to leap off the bed. “I... should get you some water. I don’t know, some medicine or something to eat. Are you hungry?"

Her sister was the nurse of the family. Livia would know what to do. Livia would know what to say, what to think. Rosaline was at a complete loss for words.

“Rosaline.” His hand ascended to her wrist, held her in place with surprising strength. “I really like you, you know.”

Panic rose within her and she blinked repeatedly. _It’s his fever talking,_ she tried to convince herself. _It’s the fever talking and nothing more_. Rosaline knew she should not let his sick state get the better of her but still she felt her core in utter disarray. What should she say back to him now? How could words match the name of all those uncalled-for feelings?

Somehow it all dwindled to that moment: like Rome, all roads lead to it. It had to be at that intersection of place and time — that sickbed, those pieces of wood, his stormy eyes. Unlikely friends, unlikely allies. The strange blossoming of a partnership. Words were fickle: they could never match the graveness of what she needed to say. Never had Rosaline felt less of a debate champion than at that moment. All her medals were worthless; her speech skills washed and fell into the drain.

“I… really like you too, Ben.”

He smiled at the mention of his nickname, almost bashfully. Given that his whole face had a reddish sweat to it, she couldn’t tell whether Benvolio was blushing or not. But the thought of making him blush, of making his ears turn pink… it filled her stomach with butterflies. His fingers stroked the back of her hand, very lightly.

“Can I ask you a question?”

His eyes on hers had a troubled quality to them. Rosaline knew that look he was giving her, she had seen it all her life: the plea of the orphan, the affection-starved look of the motherless child. Her heart pounded violently inside her chest, but she gulped and nodded all the same.

“Of course. We’re friends.”

 _Friends._ A definite word to contain an infinitude of meanings, a myriad of possibilities.

He must have sensed her panic then, for he blinked for some seconds, looking very much stricken himself. He lowered his head for a moment —  _what was he doing?_ thinking, thinking — then he looked back at her, a new flash of smile on his lips and a new twinkle on his eyes.

“Were you really going to join a convent last year? Or did you just say that to mess with my head?”

That time Rosaline did slap him. “Unbelievable!”

_Way to ruin the moment._

“Ouch, Capulet! Have you got no pity at all? I'm sick!”

Rosaline got up from the bed, equal parts frustrated and equal parts relieved. “I will when you stop making fun of me.”

“Only then?” He stopped for a moment, brows furrowed together, then proceeded to nod with fake solemnity. “So it looks like I must resign myself to my fate: I’ll never know your mercy.”

“Don’t be so dramatic." She was halfway to the kitchen but still she rolled her eyes, as though he could see her purposefully annoyed gesture from his bed. "If you stop rambling for a second, you'll see I'm trying to get you some food."

“An angel!” He singsonged, craning his neck around to follow her steps. “Capulet, I can almost see your wings from here! What a lovely pair they are."

She was well aware of what _pair_ he was referring to. She stopped and turned to face him again, crossing her arms across her chest.

“Thank you, but I’ve said I’m not taking fake compliments."

“Angel is still better than _harpy_ , no?”

She smiled again, much despite herself. “I suppose it is.” Their eyes met, danced together, caused each other's lips to curl upwards. “But I prefer to be called simply  _Rosaline_. No _Capulet_ , no _harpy,_ no  _angel._  Just _Rosaline_.”

Despite the mirth of his smile, his voice was solemn, grave as though he was taking a vow.

“Then from now on I’ll be Benvolio to you. Ben, when I'm lucky."

She tasted the word on her mouth, rolled it over and over on her tongue before speaking. " _Ben_ it is, then.”

Nothing could describe his look of astonished delight as the realisation sank in. It was at that moment Rosaline decided to change his contact ID on her phone. Of all the names she could call the Montague, she had never thought she'd call him by such a short syllable. Life had odd turns like that, it seemed. Steep curves, vertiginous dives, surprising landings that no person could divine.


End file.
